Listening to songs once sung
Not long ago; long enough that the style
Of a while back
I was looking for something, and I found a
Lost myself in a basement
So cold, so bare, so alone without a rope
To pull me out.
Found out; discovered
The glass box of a thousand lies
Like my spirit.
By my own stupid heart,
Life became a poem of brownish-black hatred and wish-I-hadn’ts.
And begged for a re-arranged self
My glory cut short
Reflected in long locks now wrapped
In a plastic bag.
A garden does not appear all at once,
Winter melts into drops of dew from which the seeds of new
And work becomes refreshing life itself.
Shame eradicated and inverted, grace bestowed, faith renewed.
Locks grow longer over time
And no one watches cells divide,
But time heals wounds meant to kill,
And brown strands depict a newness